Unbecoming
by Demented Inu
Summary: A simple question brings a simple answer. Then why does it feel like a slap to the face? Harry-centric, a glimpse of Harry's relationship with his father.


"Dad?"

The house was eerily quiet, with his footsteps echoing down the long hallways, the soles of his shoes tap-tapping against the hardwood floor with an impatience he could only have inherited from his father. Harry had been looking about the house for nearly half an hour now, his shorts grass-stained and his shirt muddy, with the scent of mud and a hard run coating him like a second skin. He imagined he must look somewhat like Pig Pen from the old Charlie Brown cartoons he liked so much - nothing but a walking dirt cloud.

A boy his age normally didn't care about dirt, and honestly, neither did Harry. He was eleven years old, with a softball in his hands - a softball his mother had bought for him last year as a birthday present, encouraging him to go outside and meet other boys - so he couldn't be bothered with keeping clean. His shoes squeaked along tile now as he crossed the kitchen and passed into the sitting room, where the masks watched him again, carefully carved or hand-woven, hanging precariously above the fireplace and scattered along the walls. Egyptian, Greek, Korean, Thai, Japanese, French, Ethiopian... countless masks, Norman Osborn's pride and joy. If Harry were ever caught touching them, he would get his knuckled rapped and he knew it. Instead he avoided their boring gaze and made his way to the office located toward the back.

Norman Osborn was a man of privacy. Harry knew that, and often gave him the space he needed. However, there were times when Harry needed his parents, and his mother was becoming more and more emotionally unavailable as Norman's obsession with work built up.

The door of the office was shut, but it wasn't locked. Harry knocked once, flinching just slightly at the sharp "What?" that came from the other side. He turned the brass knob and shouldered it open, seeing his father with the phone held up to his ear. "This had better be important, Harry, I'm in the middle of a phone call."

Harry's hand tightened instinctively around his ball, and he said softly, "I have a paper for you to sign. It's for school-"

"I'll have to call you back, Jeremy." Norman's tone was sharp; it was obvious even to Harry that he had been in the middle of an important debate. "Yes. Okay. Goodbye." The phone flipped shut and his father looked at him impatiently, setting the phone down on his shiny mahogany desk. "What is it? Why don't you ask your mother to sign it?"

"I can't find her. I think she went out again." Harry's swallowed, looked down at his shoes.

"It's impolite to look at your feet when someone is speaking to you, Harold."

Quickly, he looked back up at his father. "It's something for school. I thought maybe... I could try out for a sport, this year. I wanted to last year, but- but I was too little, but I'm old enough now. To try out for the- the softball team." He shoved his hand into his pocket, digging around for the folded up piece of yellow paper he had stuffed into it after tryouts today. The coach had been impressed, and he was hoping that his father would be too. His hand didn't even tremble this time as he swiftly unfolded the paper, smoothed it out, and held it out to him. "I just need your signature. Just your permission, that's all... I would have asked Mom, but I can't find her, I..."

Norman cut him off. "Stop babbling," he said. "It's unbecoming of an Osborn." But still, he took the paper, much to Harry's relief. His brown eyes flicked over it without much care, and then he raked over Harry's less than pristine appearance. "Sports." The word sounded toxic coming from him. "It's not really your strong suit, is it, boy?"

Shame bubbled up inside of him and he felt his face turn hot, tucking the softball protectively behind his back. "No, sir," he said. "But I just thought-"

"Are you arguing with me, Harry?"

_Fear._

"No, sir."

_Obedience._

With both hands, Norman crumpled the permission slip into a ball and tossed it into the trash. It bounced off the metal rim of the trash can and landed with a soft clatter into the pile of garbage inside. Harry gripped his hand around that softball and felt his stomach turn uneasily, like his self-confidence had been tossed instead of the paper. His eyes closed for a moment and he couldn't meet his father's gaze.

"You need to get your head out of the clouds," Norman said coldly. "Buck up, quit your whining, and focus on things you're good at instead of playing games." When Harry didn't move, he said, "Is that all?"

Harry's voice sounded strained even to his own ears. "Yes, sir."

"Then leave. I have a phone call to make."

The door swung heavily shut behind him as he left, and when he looked down at his hands, they were shaking out of nerves. The sound of the permission slip hitting the trash can rang in his ears, and he felt bile rising to the back of his throat; swallowing it down, he walked back down the hallway and away from his father's office, his fingers relaxing and his softball slipping from his hand, bouncing carelessly back to the door. Harry didn't pick it up again.


End file.
